Carson switched on the light. He had had an electrical extension
installed, and there were a few chairs and a table, but otherwise the
chamber was unchanged. Carson watched the occultist's face, and with
surprize saw it become grim, almost angry.
Leigh strode to the center of the room, staring at the chair that stood
on the black circle of stone.
"You work here?" he asked slowly.
"Yes. It's quiet—I found I couldn't work upstairs. Too noisy. But this
is ideal—somehow I find it very easy to write here. My mind feels"—he
hesitated—"free; that is, disassociated with other things. It's quite
an unusual feeling."
Leigh nodded as though Carson's words had confirmed some idea in his own
mind. He turned toward the alcove and the metal disk in the floor.
Carson followed him. The occultist moved close to the wall, tracing out
the faded symbols with a long forefinger. He muttered something under
his breath—words that sounded like gibberish to Carson.
"_Nyogtha_ ... _k'yarnak_...."
He swung about, his face grim and pale. "I've seen enough," he said
softly, "Shall we go?"
Surprized, Carson nodded and led the way back into the cellar.
Upstairs Leigh hesitated, as though finding it difficult to broach his
subject. At length he asked, "Mr. Carson—would you mind telling me if
you have had any peculiar dreams lately."
Carson stared at him, mirth dancing in his eyes. "Dreams?" he repeated.
"Oh—I see. Well, Mr. Leigh, I may as well tell you that you can't
frighten me. Your compatriots—the other occultists I've
entertained—have already tried it."
Leigh raised his thick eyebrows. "Yes? Did they ask you whether you'd
dreamed?"
"Several did—yes."
"And you told them?"
"No." Then as Leigh leaned back in his chair, a puzzled expression on
his face, Carson went on slowly, "Although, really, I'm not quite sure."
"You mean?"
"I _think_—I have a vague impression—that I have dreamed lately. But I
can't be sure. I can't remember anything of the dream, you see. And—oh,
very probably your brother occultists put the idea into my mind!"
"Perhaps," Leigh said non-committally, getting up. He hesitated. "Mr.
Carson, I'm going to ask you a rather presumptuous question. Is it
necessary for you to live in this house."
Carson sighed resignedly. "When I was first asked that question I
explained that I wanted a quiet place to work on a novel, and that any
quiet place would do. But it isn't easy to find 'em. Now that I have
this Witch Room, and I'm turning out my work so easily, I see no reason
why I should move and perhaps upset my program. I'll vacate this house
when I finish my novel, and then you occultists can come in and turn it
into a museum or do whatever you want with it. I don't care. But until
the novel is finished I intend to stay here."
Leigh rubbed his chin. "Indeed. I can understand your point of view.
But—is there no other place in the house where you can work?"
He watched Carson's face for a moment, and then went on swiftly.
"I don't expect you to believe me. You are a materialist. Most people
are. But there are a few of us who know that above and beyond what men
call science there is a greater science that is built on laws and
principles which to the average man would be almost incomprehensible. If
you have read Machen you will remember that he speaks of the gulf
between the world of consciousness and the world of matter. It is
possible to bridge that gulf. The Witch Room is such a bridge! Do you
know what a whispering-gallery is?"
"Eh?" Carson said, staring. "But there's no——"
"An analogy—merely an analogy. A man may whisper a word in a
gallery—or a cave—and if you are standing in a certain spot a hundred
feet away you will hear that whisper, although someone ten feet away
will not. It's a simple trick of acoustics—bringing the sound to a
focal point. And this principle can be applied to other things besides
sound. To any wave impulse—_even to thought_!"
Carson tried to interrupt, but Leigh kept on.
"That black stone in the center of your Witch Room is one of those focal
points. The design on the floor—when you sit on the black circle there
you are abnormally sensitive to certain vibrations—certain thought
commands—dangerously sensitive! Why do you suppose your mind is so
clear when you are working there? A deception, a false feeling of
lucidity—for you are merely an instrument, a microphone, tuned to pick
up certain malign vibrations the nature of which you could not
comprehend!"
Carson's face was a study in amazement and incredulity. "But—you don't
mean you actually _believe_——"
Leigh drew back, the intensity fading from his eyes, leaving them grim
and cold. "Very well. But I have studied the history of your Abigail
Prinn. She, too, understood this super-science of which I speak. She
used it for evil purposes—the black art, as it is called. I have read
that she cursed Salem in the old days—and a witch's curse can be a
frightful thing. Will you——" He got up, gnawing at his lip. "Will you,
at least, allow me to call on you tomorrow?"
Almost involuntarily Carson nodded. "But I'm afraid you'll be wasting
your time. I don't believe—I mean, I have no——" He stumbled, at a
loss for words.
"I merely wish to assure myself that you—oh, another thing. If you
dream tonight, will you try to remember the dream? If you attempt to
recapture it immediately after waking, it is often possible to recall
it."
"All right. If I dream——"